


Cookies

by rudbeckia



Series: Benarmie 2020 [4]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27981510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudbeckia/pseuds/rudbeckia
Summary: Kylux Advent Day 9: Pastries.Ben and Armie decide that a nice treat for Armie’s ma would be if they made cookies. Millions of people make cookies, right? So it can’t be that hard, right?
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo
Series: Benarmie 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044489
Comments: 16
Kudos: 22
Collections: Kylux Advent Calendar 2020





	Cookies

“Come on, we can do this,” Armie says with more than a hint of doubt in his voice.

“Sure we can.” Ben picks up the mixing bowl while Armie peers at the faded biro on yellowed paper. “It’s nice to do something for your mom. Flour, right?” Ben reaches for the bag of flour. Armie slaps his hand and the bag drops back onto the table in a white puff.

“We need to weigh it. I think it says twelve ounces.” He straightens up and opens the nearest few cupboards and closes them again, one bang at a time. “I can’t find the scales.”

“Just guess, then,” Ben says. He lifts the flour bag again and tips it over the bowl. With a soft _whumph,_ flour lands in the bowl, clouds up and splashes onto the table.

Ben coughs. Armie bites his lip. “What?” Ben looks at Armie, daring him to criticise. Armie twitches a smile.  
“Nothing. Nothing at all. So we’re estimating all the measurements.” He looks back down at the recipe. “All right. Get me four ounces of butter.”  
Ben takes the butter from the fridge, cuts just shy of half of it off the block and drops it into the bowl. He rubs a hair from his cheek with a finger then wipes his hand on his jeans.

“Next?”  
Armie purses his lips. “Dark brown sugar. Um, six ounces.”  
Ben rummages in a cupboard and brings out the white granulated sugar Aoife uses to refill the sugar bowl, a bag containing about a tablespoon of Demerara, and a red-painted tin of treacle.  
“This is everything. The sugar is white but the treacle is dark brown. We could mix them and it’ll be the same.”  
Armie looks doubtful. “I’m really not sure it will be.”  
“Call it a variation, then. My dad says you don’t need recipes. Just make whatever looks nice.”  
“Oh?” Armie raises his eyebrows. “Is your dad a good cook?”  
“He thinks he is, but when I stay with him we go out a lot.”

Ben pours some granulated sugar on top of the butter then pops the treacle tin open and holds it upside down over the bowl. Nothing happens.  
“There’s something wrong with the treacle.”  
Armie laughs and takes the tin, reaches for a clean spoon and scoops out a dollop. He drops the treacle, complete with spoon, into the bowl.  
“Okay.” Armie brushes his hair back with one hand. Ben follows the movement with his eyes and suppresses a grin. “Cinnamon and ginger. The writing is faded. T-something... spoons?”  
“Tablespoons,” Ben says with authority. Armie nods and hands Ben the biggest spoon from the drawer. Ben frowns at it. “Is that a tablespoon?”  
“Must be,” Armie says with a shrug. “It’s the spoon ma puts on the table when we’re to help ourselves.”

Ben nods, a look of understanding lighting his face. It soon passes into disappointment.  
“There is nowhere near enough cinnamon or ginger left. What should we do?”  
“Tip it all in. Are there any other spices we could substitute?”  
Ben twists the containers around on the spice rack and reads out the labels. “Curry... no. Chilli powder... no. There’s something called five-spice?”  
Armie shrugs. “That must be the stuff.”

Armie pulls a face. “I think it needs to be mixed thoroughly.”  
Ben takes a firm grip of the wooden spoon and lays into the contents of the bowl. He and Armie both cough and splutter as flour and spice powder fly up into a cloud and leave a fine dusting over them. Ben pulls the spoon out. The business end carries a solid mass of congealed treacle and butter with sugar crusted onto it. The treacle spoon falls off and clatters to the table.

“The butter is too hard and the treacle’s too sticky,” Armie observes.  
“I’ll put it in the microwave to soften,” Ben replies. “How long will it need?”  
Armie shrugs. “Dunno. I usually do everything for three minutes.”  
“The butter is really hard. I’ll do it for six minutes.”  
Ben puts the bowl on the turntable, sets the dial and pressed the start button. The old microwave buzzes and whirs to life. Armie points at Ben and laughs. “You should see yourself. There’s butter in your hair and flour on your cheek.”  
“At least I didn’t use treacle as hair gel,” Ben retorts, pointing at Armie’s swept-back style.  
Armie draws his finger through the thick, glossy trail easing its way down the side of the treacle tin to make a ring on the table and lunges for Ben. He smears treacle on Ben’s face while Ben yells and laughs and squirms.  
“I’ll get you back for that!” Ben scoops a palmful on spilled flour and throws it over Armie’s hair. Armie flips his head down and shakes like a damp dog, dislodging some of the powder over the floor. Ben takes the opportunity to grab Armie and hold him with his arms pinned to his sides, backing him up to the worktop. Armie lets his head bump once, gently, against the cupboard door behind him, makes himself relax so that Ben will think he has yielded, and leans forward to catch a treacle smear on Ben’s lip with his mouth.

Armie feels Ben’s lips tighten and curve in a smile. He frees his arms and slides his sticky, dusty hands into Ben’s hair, kissing him harder. Ben closes his eyes and makes a contented little noise as he grinds against Armie and kisses him back. As they murmur nervous promises that tonight Armie will sneak into Ben’s bed once Aoife is asleep, completely unnoticed, there is a soft _bing!_ and the bubbled-over butter and treacle, melted and burned sugar, and half cooked flour that coats the inside of the microwave starts to cool.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND PURE IS GOING ON HERE!”

  
Armie and Ben jump apart and whirl around to see Aoife standing in the doorway looking murderous. She takes one long look at Armie and Ben, and bursts into laughter.

  
“Oh!” she wags a finger at them both then points at her own face. “Do NOT be confused by the fact that I am laughing at you two fools. I am appalled by the state of my kitchen and you are going to clean it up right now. But first.” She points at Armie. “You are going to explain to me in ten words or fewer what the hell led to this... this... carnage!”

Armie thinks for a few seconds and then counts off words on his fingers. “We were making Gran’s Christmas cookies, but it went wrong.”  
Aoife sighs. “Well. No harm done, I suppose. You start clearing up, I’ll start some potatoes in the microwave.”  
“Aoife?” Ben moves to intercept, taking Aoife by the arm and steering her out of the kitchen. “We’re really sorry about the mess and we’ll have it cleared up on no time. You shouldn’t have to look at it so why don’t you relax in front of the TV and I’ll bring you a cup of tea and make baked potatoes in the oven?”

If Aoife is suspicious she keeps the fact to herself. Ben returns to the kitchen where Armie mouths, “Nice save!”  
Ben nods. He takes four large potatoes from the vegetable rack, scrubs them clean and puts them on the oven shelf, then sets the temperature as high as it will go.

Thankfully, when the first potato succumbs to its internal pressure build up with a loud bang, Aoife is fast asleep.


End file.
